On a recent Friday evening, in a loft in the Flatiron District of Manhattan, a woman sat at a piano bench, illuminated by candlelight and lost in her private thoughts. “I’ve been without music for such a long time,” she said to herself. “All I want to do now is play and weep, weep like a lost soul.”
It was a private moment of wistfulness shared by an audience of 40, in an intimate, site-specific production of “Uncle Vanya.” Directed by Jack Serio, the show places audience members in fly-on-the-wall proximity with the disconsolate figures of Chekhov’s play. Meanwhile, through the windows, darkness descends.
The singular
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